“Given his head start, no chance. The best I can do is call President Potrenko and have him shut it down.”
“I suggest you do that immediately. If a plane with Beria onboard gets off the ground, we have the makings of a holocaust!”
__________
Ivan Beria got off the bus after it had pulled into the departures area of the international terminal. Because of the time difference between Moscow and Western capitals, most flights left early in the morning. Those having business in Zurich, Paris, London, or even New York would arrive just as the wheels of commerce in those cities started to churn.
Beria scrutinized the uniformed patrols loitering by the check-in counters. Detecting no unusual activity or heightened security, he walked down the concourse toward the duty-free and gift shops. On the way, he slowed his stride a fraction to glance at the monitor that listed the morning’s departures. The flight he’d been told to look for had just commenced boarding.
Beria walked up to the plate-glass window of the duty-free shop and pretended to study the perfume and cigar displays. As he moved closer to the entrance, he watched for the man whom he was supposed to meet.
A minute crawled by as passengers entered and left the shop. Beria began to wonder if his contact was inside. There was no way to check, since he couldn’t enter the duty-free area without a boarding pass.
Then he saw what he was looking for: a shiny, bald pate sticking out of the crowd. As he moved closer, he noted the second distinguishing feature: the distinct egg-shaped eyes that gave Adam Treloar his perplexed, slightly startled expression.
“David,” he called out softly.
Treloar, who had been milling around the entrance to the shop, almost fainted when he heard the code name. He looked around, trying to find the speaker, then felt a touch at his elbow.
“David, I thought I had missed you.”
Treloar stared at the cold, dark eyes of the man standing in front of him. The thin smile, meant to reassure, reminded him of a razor slash.
“You’re late!” Treloar whispered. “I’ve been waiting—”
He heard Beria’s chuckle, then gasped as an incredibly tight grip seized his arm. He offered no resistance as Beria steered him to a refreshment stand and sat him down at the end of the counter.
“Oranges and lemons…” Beria said in a singsong tone.
For an instant, Treloar’s mind went blank. Desperately, he tried to remember the words that would complete the phrase.
“Say… Say the bells of Saint Clemens!”
Beria smiled. “Give me your carry-on.”
Treloar reached for the small leather bag at his feet and placed it on the counter.
“The liquor.”
Treloar dug out a small bottle of plum brandy that he’d bought at the hotel gift shop.
Unscrewing the cap, Beria raised the bottle to his lips and pretended to drink. He passed it to Treloar, who mimicked him. At the same time, Beria slipped the container from his pocket onto the counter.
“Smile,” he said conversationally. “We are two friends sharing a drink before one of us has to leave.” Treloar’s eyes bulged as Beria unscrewed the container. “And because we can’t finish the bottle, I give you the rest to enjoy during your flight.”
Carefully, he poured a few ounces of brandy into the container. “Now, if the inspectors wish to check, you open it and let them smell what’s inside.”
Pushing back his stool, Beria gripped Treloar’s shoulder. “Have a safe flight.” He winked. “And forget that you ever saw me.”
__________
The all-points bulletin on Ivan Beria reached Sheremetevo security just as Adam Treloar was going through the metal detector. The guard manning the scanner noted a cylindrical object in the carry-on and asked the American to step aside. Another guard opened the bag, removed the container, and unscrewed it. Smelling a distinctive plum odor, he smiled and closed the top.
Handing it back to Treloar, he offered some advice: “Your brandy is too cold. It tastes much better when it’s warm.”
By the time a squad of militia flooded the international terminal, Treloar was safely ensconced in his first-class seat. The American Airlines 767 was pulled back from the gate just as airport security began reviewing their surveillance tapes, searching for anyone who resembled Ivan Beria.
American flight 1710, nonstop to London with continuing service to Washington’s Dulles Airport, was number two for takeoff behind a Paris-bound Air France Airbus. The call from the minister of defense reached the flight director in the control tower as 1710 was given the go signal by traffic control.
“Shut it down!” the director screamed over the loudspeaker.
Twenty-two faces turned and stared at him as if he were quite insane.
“Shut what down?” one of the controllers asked.
“The airport, you imbecile!”
“All of it?”
“Yes! Nothing leaves the ground.”
All activity in the tower was focused on relaying a FULL-STOP message to aircraft taxiing into position on the active runways and waiting on the aprons. No one had time to think about the planes that had taken off. By the time they did, American 1710 had banked over Moscow and was climbing smoothly to its designated cruising altitude of thirty-six thousand feet.
___________________
CHAPTER
TWELVE
___________________
Because of the time difference between Moscow and the eastern seaboard of the United States, it was still the middle of the night when Anthony Price pulled up to the northern guard house at Fort Belvoir, Virginia.
After the computer had scanned his credentials, he drove up the crushed-shell driveway to General Richardson’s quarters, a stately Victorian surrounded by a manicured lawn. Lights were burning on the third floor, as Price had expected.
The deputy director of the National Security Agency found Richardson in his study, the gleaming bookshelves filled with leather volumes, mementos, and framed military citations. The general rose behind his desk and gestured at the coffee tray.
“Sorry to have dragged you out of bed, Tony, but I wanted you to see this for yourself.”
Price, who seldom slept more than four hours a night, helped himself to coffee, then came around so that he could see the computer screen.
“The latest message from Telegin,” Richardson said, indicating the descrambled text.
Price read the first few sentences, then looked up. “So everything at Bioaparat went according to plan. What’s the problem?”
“Read the rest.”
Price’s eyes narrowed. “Jon Smith? What the hell is he doing in Moscow?”
“According to Telegin, poking around in our business. Seems that he almost tipped Kirov off in time.”
“But both Beria and Treloar escaped…. Haven’t they?”
Richardson rubbed his tired eyes. “That’s the reason I called you: I don’t know. Telegin was supposed to report once both men were safely away. She hasn’t. Check this out.”
Richardson hit several keys and the latest CNN updates filled the screen.
“A problem at the Moscow train station,” he said. “Someone decided to have an O-K-corral shootout. The Russians clamped down hard and fast, so the details are sketchy. But you have to wonder: what happened to Telegin?”
“If you haven’t heard from her, she’s dead,” Price said flatly.
“Or taken. If Kirov has her—”
“He doesn’t! Telegin was a pro. She never would have let herself be taken alive.” He pointed to the screen. “Says here there are at least five dead— all security personnel. I know Beria is good, but to take out that many he had to have had help. I think Telegin stepped in.”
After a moment’s silence, Richardson said, “Assuming that Beria got away clean, we still have a problem. Kirov and Smith will be all over Telegin— her movements, contacts, the works. She may have left footprints.”
Price paced along Richardson’s museum-quality Oriental rug. “I’ll head for Fort Meade. A shooting in a Moscow train station? Hell, that’s a terrorist act, NSA territory. Nobody will raise an eyebrow when I get people working on this.”
“What about Smith?” Richardson asked.
“He’s army, so you start checking. He’s got to be working for someone, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s making way too many connections. First Yuri Danko, now showing up in Russia…”
“Randi Russell is CIA undercover in Moscow.”
“I don’t think that Smith flew seven thousand miles for a piece of ass, Frank. We need to know who’s issuing him his marching orders— then we cut him off at the knees!”
__________
The first thing Randi Russell noticed when she deactivated the alarm and opened the door to Bay Digital was that she was not alone Although the security system indicated no intrusion, she caught the faint odor of clove tobacco smoke.
“Carrot Top, is that you?” she called out.
“I’m in here, Randi.”
Sighing, Randi locked the door behind her. She’d come in early, hoping to use the peace and quiet to catch up on some reports.
“Where in here?”
“The file room.”
“Damn!”
Gritting her teeth, Randi marched to the very back of the office. The file room was really a large, walk-in vault where the latest computer equipment was kept. Theoretically, she was the only one with the combination.